


a well-intentioned weatherman

by rkvian



Series: Tired of Waking Up (Alone) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Confessions, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fenris Has Issues, Fenris is Bad at Feelings, Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 17:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15954467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rkvian/pseuds/rkvian
Summary: Isabela finds Hawke in the Hanged Man the day after her first night with Fenris.“You know what they say about people who drink this early... Those who have no life, and those who are nursing a broken heart. I know you have a life, so the question is who broke your heart?"





	a well-intentioned weatherman

 

_when will i feel this as vivid as it truly is,  
_ _fall in love in a single touch,_  
and fall apart when it hurts too much?  
[Touch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74PxwSlUiS8), Sleeping at Last

 

_ii._

“You know what they say about people who drink this early.”

Her lips curved at the sight of the Pirate Queen sliding into the spot next to her. “I'm afraid not. What do they say?”

Isabela waved at Corff, signaling for a tankard of ale while she tossed coppers in exchange. Hawke watched the disgruntled man deliver the order. The pirate gulped her drink, and then turned back to her with a playful smirk.  “Those who have no life, and those who are nursing a broken heart. I know you have a life, so the question is _who_ broke your heart?”

She returned the look on the pirate’s face with her own simper grin. “You wouldn’t know, I may be here only because I have no fancy noble party to go to right now.”

“Only, you aren’t.”

Sniggering and then nodding. “Only, I’m not.”

Isabela nudged her. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Somewhere behind her patrons laughed raucously, and at the other side of the room someone slammed their container against the makeshift tables. Her lips twitched, knowing a headache will bloom sooner than inebriation.

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Isabela made a noise of disapproval and left the topic there. Hawke however, was wise enough to know that even if they weren’t talking about it doesn’t mean she would stop prodding for ways to make her _want_ to admit the truth on her own. Fucking rogues and their cleverly— _nosy_ —ways. Guzzling up the rest of her ale and ordering another, her suspicions were confirmed when a sly look crept Isabela’s lips.

“You know I was with Fenris last night.”

Her eyes widened at the confession as the liquid in her mouth went down the wrong pipe—and a hand flew to her mouth as she ended up coughing uncontrollably, knocking her chair over to avoid making too much mess over the bar counter. Corff glanced at the two of them with a disapproving look, while some patrons gave her a mocking grin. She tried to open her mouth to apologize but ended up with another volley of coughing. The barman rolled his eyes at her half-assed apology as she returned to her seat.

“You were _what_?” Hawke hissed at Isabela instead, wordlessly agreeing to wipe the mess when Norah passed by with a rag that looked and smelled as if it was taken from even dirtier places.

Isabela gave her an amused look, tapping a palm repeatedly on her back.

“Oh yes. He was rather…skillful. How do I describe him...ah, like I was a bent nail he loved _hammering_.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yes I am, sweet thing. He had a mark here,” before she could even comprehend what the woman’s questing hands would do to her, Isabela’s thumbs pressed, lowered and dug into her high collar—

—then broke out into loud rambunctious laughter.

Two mouth-shaped welt; the first one was bright and red beneath her jaw, and the other was a fainter shade of pink at the base of her throat.

Thoroughly mortified, she spent a moment flapping her mouth like a fish out of water, heat creeping up her neck, cheeks, and to the tips of her ears. She caught and pushed both of Isabela’s wandering hands away from her person, but by that time it was too late.

“I knew it.” The pirate guffawed, “Ooh, Varric owes me lots of sovereign when he finds out! Where is that manly dwarf?”

“Inaccessible at the… Can you, can you— _please_ , stop?”

Despite her boisterous cackling, some sort of shadow passed over Isabela’s eyes. It was gone the next second though, and later Hawke would spend a lot of time wondering if it was just a trick of the eye.

“You—and Fenris!”

Her declaration cut through the noise of the Hanged Man easily, attracting the attention of the patrons around them. Of course they know of the merry band of misfits that made up Varric’s company. Of course they know who the strange elf with even stranger tattoos was. Of- _fucking_ -course they had to follow the Tattletale’s asservation with their own ‘ _Here, here!_ ’ as if there was something…official…because there wasn’t. There wasn’t.

“ _Isabela._ ”

“Sorry.” Not even a trace of guilt.

When Hawke found the courage to look up from her empty cup, Corff was giving her a strange look she couldn’t decipher. She swigged the next tankard he sent their way, ignoring the murmuring that broke around them. For the next few shots, the two of them drank in silence.

Half an hour slipped by easily, her vision starting to swim by the time she found the words to say.

“You knew?”

Isabela perked up, smiling into the rim of her tankard. Outside, the sun was starting to set, sending light tinted red flittering into the run-down tavern. New patrons poured over their silence, the name _Hawke_ and _elf with strange tattoos_ on everyone’s lips.

“I told you, I was with Fenris last night.”

“And you slept with him?” Drunk. She was drunk, and _so fucking thankful_ for it. Otherwise, Varric will be waking up to her setting his favorite tavern up in a fiery hell, every inch burning with uncontrolled firestorm aching to dance from her fingertips. And it was going to be his fault for staying up with some acquaintance instead of listening to her wallow in self pity and…huh. That sounded selfish even to her own ears. But she was drunk. Wasn’t there some sort of pass for drunken people’s endeavors?

The pirate gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Is that jealousy I detect?”

“Answer the question, ‘Sabela.”

_Any moment now._

“Alright, _sheesh_ , you’re touchy today Hawke. I was joking. I didn’t have sex with him.”

She made a face—surprise? Relief? “Oh, good.”

“But you did, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why in Maker’s jiggling buttocks do the two of you look like two miserable children banned from eating sweets for the rest of your lives?”

Swallowing another mouthful, she let her head hit the gritty counter. “It’s…a long story.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me the drama.”

A snort escaped her lips. “I was planning to, anyway.”

“Well now I don’t want to be spared.”

“Too late.”

There was a pause between them, and before she could take another sip, the pirate took the tankard off of her hand. Isabela raised a finger between them, silencing any protest before she could voice it.

“Now this is usually Aveline’s job, but I can’t help it. You’re being too pathetic.”

“Oh, don’t mother me. If anyone’s stupid enough to trouble me on the way back to Hightown I’ll just blast them into toasted kebab bits.”

“While I will be thoroughly entertained by the prospect, Aveline won’t. I reckon your Mother won’t be, either.”

Hawke offered a sly grimace, “You’re not usually like this Isabela. Someone might accuse you of learning how to care.”

Oh, _oh_ feelings. Isabela didn’t like to concern herself with feelings. So she deals with it the only way she knew how. With a roll of her eyes and a quip: “Will you _shut up_ and listen for me for a second?”

The sudden seriousness on the Pirate’s face made Hawke purse her lips. She blinked repeatedly, baffled at the sight of it, but mostly just trying to make out...nose, and the eyes, and the mouth.

“I don’t know exactly know what happened between the two of you, nor would I bother to know—except the steamy bits, of course—but let me tell you one thing Hawke: that Elf’s got a thing for you. He looked like shit when he returned to his mans—”

“…you were waiting for him to come home?”

To which Isabela spared her a second to look absolutely scandalized.

“That isn’t even the point!” With an exaggerated sigh, she continued. “Look, I bet if you check him out right now he’s still doing the same thing since I left him. Brooding, but more _intensely_.”

“I can sense a ‘ _but_ ’ coming.”

“That’s because there is, sweetness.” The pirate’s lips bowed into an enigmatic smile. “But you shouldn’t. He fancies you, but he needs his space to sort out problems on his own. He’s wants to be around you…even _ugh_ have feelings for you, but he’s mature enough to know that if he tries to pursue any relationship while he’s still ass deep in whatever his life crisis is, he might—” she made an intricate motion with her hands, “—ruin things. Possibly has a thing or two to do with his old Master.”

Hawke frowned. “I already know and I understand. I only wanted…”

Isabela gave her a soft pat on her arm. “You mean a lot to him, Hawke. Just give him time.”

* * *

 

Fire roared at the hearth of her room with a facile gesture of a practiced hand. One by one the clasps to her foot wear clicks open, and she pushes the leather off her toes to collapse down the carpet next to the bed. Her head thuds against the red coverlet of the mattress, legs sprawled in front.

She woke up alone earlier that day, after he had left. She expected her room to be in a haphazard state, with clothes strewn about and weapons discarded. But it wasn’t. Instead, her clothes were folded neatly on the edge of her bed; her dagger and Malcolm’s staff by her desk.

Breathing a mirthless chuckle, she refused the invitation to the Fade by keeping her eyes open to blink against the ceiling of her four-poster bed.

She can still think then. Not drunk enough.

Her vision was swimming the whole time she crawled towards the desk at the corner of the room, limbs gangly as if someone had taken her apart and put her together incorrectly. With a yank at the bureau, the wood swung open, and searching hands patted across the insides until it landed on cold glass.

Legacy White Shear, from the color not the words. An Orlesian ritewine from her Mother’s friends given during her first name day as Kirkwall noble. _Save it for an occasion!_ They said, and this _is_ an occasion.

The day she finally outdrank Isabela and still made it to Hightown. She popped the cork off the bottle with her teeth—

And felt as if she had been doused with cold water at the realization _all of these is useless._ Because after all of the drinks she is still thinking of him. After all of the bruises from colliding and stumbling over wood and stone, she can still feel his warmth. After telling herself over and over _Hawke, for_ _fuck’s sake it’s over_ , she still just wants to be around him.

The liquor burned a path down her stomach, and another gulp, and then six. She thought of Isabela’s words, and she wasn’t lying when she said she did understand.

She did understand, but Maker, it _hurts_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
